"For the Love of Jasper" One-Shot Contest

Title: Coming Home

Pen name: ladyrip

Existing work: Mars Rising

Primary Players: Jasper

Disclaimer: I don't own Jasper or anything else Twilight. I just thought
I'd explore a little "What if…?" from his history.

To see other entries in the "For the Love of Jasper" contest, please visit the C2:
www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/community/For_the_Love_of_Jasper_Contest/72564/

July 1865

He was coming home.

It had been four and a half long years since he had seen his family and the farm. During that time, he had traveled around Texas and Louisiana, leading Confederate troops under his command. He had always had a gift for influencing others and readily learned strategy in battle which had helped him to rise quickly, gaining the rank of Major before he was twenty. Although he had been wounded on several occasions—the scars crisscrossing his chest stood out as white testimony of his numerous brushes with death—he had somehow managed to survive where so many others had not.

Now, cresting the hill overlooking the valley of his birth, he pulled his horse up short. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes scanned the lowlands, taking in the house he had grown up in, the fields that provided his family's livelihood, the stable that was home to the horses he'd learned to ride on, and the lake where he had spent many hot summers swimming.

All still intact.

So many times, when word of the fighting and decimation back home had reached him in Texas, he had worried and prayed that his family would be able to escape the devastation so many others had been subjected to in the War Between the States.

It was almost twilight, the sun having dipped below the horizon moments before, and he clicked his tongue at the mare, propelling her forward. He was anxious to reach the house before full darkness fell, and within the span of a few minutes, he was across the valley and reining in at the front of the house. He hoped they would all be there, healthy and happy despite the trials of the last four and a half years.

Tying his horse's reins to the split rail fence that fronted the house, he took a deep breath and marched up the steps, his booted heels making soft thuds on the weathered wood. He gripped the brass door handle … and hesitated. They didn't know he was coming. He didn't want to frighten them by simply barging in, unannounced—especially at this time of day. He flexed his gloved fingers before making a fist and rapping sharply three times on the door.

The wait seemed interminable.

Maybe he should have just entered.

Then finally, finally the door swung open, and there stood his younger brother. They both stood frozen in place, staring at each other: the elder drinking in the features of the younger who had matured into manhood, baby fat hardening into lean muscle; the younger looking, wide-eyed, as if he were seeing an apparition, a face he'd never thought to see again.

"Jasper?" came the whispered voice, hoping yet disbelieving.

Without a word, the soldier lifted his right hand and pulled his hat from his sweaty blond curls as he clapped his left arm around his not-so-little brother's shoulders. His brother stiffened, still not believing what was quickly becoming undeniable. Then he snapped out of his stupor and crushed his beloved older brother in a strong, almost painful embrace.

"Francis," Jasper choked out, blinking back the tears that stung his eyes. He buried his face in his brother's neck, overcome with emotion and unable to say more than those two syllables.

And then came the voice he had ached to hear for four and a half long years. The voice he had once imagined as he lay on a cot in a hospital tent, sure that he was about to close his eyes for the last time. The voice that was softness and love and church on Sunday and … home.

"Francis? Who is it?" his mother called from the parlor.

"Let me tell her," Francis whispered, pulling back reluctantly but keeping one hand on his elder brother's broad shoulder. Jasper nodded, silently following Francis to the doorway. He smiled as Francis let go, stepped over the threshold, and said, "Mama, it's Jasper. He's come home."

He heard his mother's soft gasp followed by, "It can't be!" just as he stepped through the doorway. Her hand flew to her mouth as she stared at him, her body angled toward the open doorway behind her, almost afraid to believe the sight before her eyes.

"Mama," he said, stripping off his gloves and tossing them on the spindle-legged table as he came around the settee and dropped to his knees at her feet. The floodgates let loose then, and their tears mingled as he folded her in his arms, pressing his wet cheek to hers. He held her as her fragile body shuddered and shivered with the force of her sobs, his broad callused palms running up and down her back. "Shh," he crooned. "I'm home, Mama. I'm home."

Jasper heard a rustle of fabric and felt a light hand on his shoulder. He shifted to the left, still keeping his arms around his mother. Looking up, he met his little sister's tear-streaked face and reached out to wrap an arm around her waist.

"Emma," he breathed. She gasped for breath as he pulled her to his side, the heavy sobs wracking her slender frame.

And then he looked back at his mother, realizing that there should've been one more family member to greet.

"Where's Papa?" he asked, fearing that he already knew the answer.

Three choked sobs met his question, and he looked around the parlor, the black shrouds over the mirrors and his mother's and sister's midnight gowns finally registering in his consciousness. He squeezed the women in his family tighter, offering and taking what little comfort he could.

"When?" he asked, when he could finally speak.

"Four days ago," Francis whispered, his hand on Mrs. Whitlock's shoulder. "He'd been sick for a couple of months and just … just didn't get better."

Jasper sighed. If only he had left four days earlier… He'd had the chance but had offered to stay behind and close down the fort. In that moment, all the victories he had won seemed hollow and pointless, more so than the day he had received word that his troops were to pull out and the fort was to be abandoned.

If only he had known…

So many if onlys dotted his past. He had learned through hard experience that there was no use in dwelling on if onlys. No amount of wishing, working, or wondering could bring back the lost opportunities. And a man could go mad constantly rethinking his actions instead of dealing with the consequences placed before him. Oh, but how he wished he could have this one back. Just this one … of all the bad choices, he thought he would gladly give anything to be able to see his father one more time.

Jasper reached out his right hand to Francis, and the two of them held tight, circling their arms around their women. The broken little family stayed that way for some time, crying and comforting each other as the evening faded into night, the sky taking on the somber colors of their mourning.

***

Jasper rubbed his eyes as the sunlight streamed in through the drapes, and he wondered briefly—in those first moments of waking consciousness—where he was. And then he remembered: he was home … with his family. Well, with most of his family.

He sat up slowly and squinted against the bright morning light, brushing his unruly locks off his forehead. He thought back to the night before. At some point he had risen stiffly from his knees to see to his mare's comfort, Francis accompanying him with a lantern to the stable. His father's horses had long been gone, and the stable was in a mild state of disrepair. His father…

He stood then and clutched his chest, the pang of loss still sharp and new. He scrubbed his face with his hands, wishing he could erase the memory of his mother's face when he had asked where his father was.

Today he would visit his father's grave.

If only he had been here to hold his mother through the funeral…

Enough with the if onlys, Whitlock, he chastised himself.

At least she'd had Francis and Emma with her. At least she wasn't left without family as so many other widows had been.

Jasper walked barefoot to the vanity and splashed his face with the tepid water from the pitcher and basin, scrubbing his face once again.

He pulled on his uniform foregoing the heavy wool jacket, reminding himself to ask Francis for a change of clothes. They would be around the same size now. He slid his feet into his boots and stomped a couple of times to secure the fit before leaving the room of his youth and going downstairs to face the day. Four and a half years in the army had taught him to take each day as it came and be prepared for anything.

And that was exactly how he would meet this new phase of his life. Being in command came naturally to him now, and he knew he was up to the task, little as he wanted to assume the responsibilities. As a youth under his father's thumb, he had longed for the day when he would be head of the household—his own household—which had prompted him to join up against his father's wishes when the call for soldiers came. He had hoped the army would allow him to prove himself in ways that his father never had, and he'd not been disappointed. Prove himself he had, more times over than he really cared to remember now.

And he would give anything to go back to the time when he was just the older brother, with only the responsibilities dished out by his father, the head of the household.

No regrets, he reminded himself. What's done is done. Take what you're given and make the best of it.

***

With only their feet for transportation, the family had decided to bury their beloved patriarch not in the traditional family cemetery on the other side of the lake but beside the stable which had housed his beloved thoroughbreds for so many years. It was to this site that Jasper now trudged, slapping his hat absently against the side of his leg.

He stopped when he reached the freshly turned mound of earth with the wooden cross sticking out of the ground at its head. He would have to see about getting a more permanent marker for his father's final resting place.

He stood there for a few minutes, just staring down at the six by three foot pile of dirt. No stranger to death and burial, Jasper held his emotions—which had flowed so freely the night before—in check. The morning sun gently warmed his mop of blond curls. After a time, he sank down on his haunches, getting closer to the man who had given him life and taught him its earliest lessons.

"Papa," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Papa, please don't hate me. I did what I thought was right." He paused to swallow against the lump in his throat. "I hope you weren't too disappointed in me. I've tried to live up to the lessons you taught me. I just … I wanted to take responsibility. I wanted to make you proud of me." He ran his fingers down the wood of the cross and trailed them over the bare earth. "I guess I'll never know if I succeeded."

"You did," came a soft voice from behind him.

Jasper turned, startled to find himself not alone.

His mother walked toward him, her black dress soaking up the morning sunshine, a sheer black veil over her head and shoulders. She stopped when she reached him and placed a dainty, gloved hand on his shoulder. He turned back toward the cross and nodded, not sure he believed her.

"You sent home letters and we heard through the army dispatches all about the victories and promotions you won. We knew you were conducting yourself as a true Whitlock would." She squeezed his shoulder gently. "And he was proud. We both were."

He nodded again, one step closer to believing.

"He never hated you."

He reached up to cover her hand with his.

"He didn't understand at first. But he made peace with your decision. He knew it was time for you to be a man. The man he's raised you to be."

Jasper squeezed her hand in thanks, and they stood there for a few minutes longer, gazing down where the man they both loved now lay, both wishing that things had turned out so much differently.

***

Two months later, Jasper sat behind his father's desk—his desk—in the study, sorting through the stack of bills and other legal documents. It had taken the better part of those two months to sort out the state of their livelihood and to come up with a plan to repay the debts his father had taken on and which were now his. He sighed at the irony of it. He had run away with the army to escape the responsibility of his father's life only to be faced with it four and a half years later.

As he sifted through the mail, he came across a heavy white envelope. Breaking the seal he opened it up and extracted an invitation to a barbecue in two weeks at the home of one of their neighbors. It seemed that Daniel Grayson, the only son of that family to return from the war, had fallen in love with a Northern girl and brought her home, and they were celebrating the impending nuptials. Although they were still in mourning, he supposed it would be alright for their family to attend. He penned a quick response, accepting the invitation and placed it on the pile of mail to be posted. He would be sure to tell his mother and siblings about it at dinner that night. He knew Emma at least would be excited.

Jasper spent the better part of the day wrapped up in business matters before he finally decided he had had enough. His eyes flickered to the invitation and he wondered if he was ready to join that part of the world. He had slipped almost seamlessly into the running of the farm and household, but social gatherings were still outside his new civilian experience. He sighed heavily, glancing once more at the white linen paper, and took himself down to the stable to go for a ride to clear his head.

***

"Major Whitlock."

The sweet southern voice behind him sent a shiver down his spine. He recognized it.

Unfortunately.

"Just Jasper, Miss Hamilton," he corrected, his mellow voice barely audible under the noise of the other guests at the barbecue.

"Oh, come now, Major. Let's not be modest," she drawled, giving him a sly smile and slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.

"It's not modesty, Miss Hamilton," he responded, sliding her hand out from under his arm. "I'm a civilian now. No more army titles."

He turned to face her, instantly recognizing her perfectly pinned blonde curls and rouged cheeks and lips. She had always been meticulous about her appearance. Once he had thought she was perfect, but now he knew she was simply artificial.

"Well, I would think you'd be proud of your military prowess," she said, sliding her finger down the buttons of his shirt. "Call me Melanie," she added.

"I only did my duty, Miss Hamilton," he replied, wondering how he was going to extricate himself from his one-time lover's clutches.

"Yes, you were always about duty, weren't you, Jasper?" she said. "And it's Mrs. Thompkins now."

"You married Bart Thompkins?" he asked in surprise, unable to picture her on the arm of a man a good twenty years her senior. He glanced around the Grayson's back lawn, scanning the crowd for her husband.

"No thanks to you," she spat, turning her back on him. She waved her fan languidly in front of her face.

He scowled. "Me?"

"If you hadn't gone and joined the army and got yourself shipped off to Louisiana…" She left the thought hanging.

Jasper frowned. There had been a time when he might have asked for her hand … before he had learned that she had spread her charms among his best friends as well. And it seemed that she still thought he would've married her even though he knew the truth about her. He shook his head.

"Bart Thompkins," he said again.

"He was the best offer I had after all you young things ran off to war."

He grunted softly in acknowledgement that the war had indeed taken many of the young eligible bachelors away from the ladies, sometimes forever.

"And now I'm a widow," she said, making sure he knew she was free. There was no sorrow in her voice, only invitation.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Thompkins," he said, patting her arm lightly. "If you'll excuse me…"

He smiled as he heard a rustle of fabric and a soft stomp behind him. She always did have a flair for the dramatic.

***

Jasper let himself into the Grayson's stable, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. He strode slowly to his mare's stall and slipped inside, crooning softly to her. He patted her neck and side then smoothed his hand down her glossy coat.

Running into Melanie Hamilton—Thompkins, he reminded himself—had brought back memories of his youth and his long-dead dreams of the future. For the past four years, Jasper hadn't allowed himself to dream about the future. He had seen too much of war and death and shattered dreams to allow himself to hope for more than the current day would give him. Before the war—before he had found out what she was really like—he had planned to marry her. He sometimes wondered, although he rarely allowed himself to think about it, if she wasn't part of the reason he had signed up. While he had wanted to be out from under his father's rule, he had also wanted a family and home of his own. Melanie Hamilton had seemed like the perfect match, until the day he heard his two best friends talking about her in the most intimate of ways. Neither of them had seemed bothered by the fact that they had both had her, but at least they had had the grace to be embarrassed when he made his presence known and they realized that he knew their part in her deceit.

For the past two and a half months, he had been going through the motions of his father's life, running that farm and looking after his mother and siblings. Francis was a man in his own right now and could marry if he were so inclined. Emma should have had beaus calling daily, and he supposed the bees stayed away from the flower out of respect for her recent loss. But he knew his brother and sister would likely be moving on to the next phase of their lives sooner than he might want to think about. And where did that leave him?

Alone.

Head of the household.

Caring for his mother.

Not that he minded that last in the least. He loved his mother dearly and would gladly provide and care for her until her dying day. And he had no problem shouldering the responsibility of head of the household. Hadn't he proven himself worthy to take charge for several years in the army?

It was the other condition that plagued his thoughts.

Alone.

Going through the motions of life … alone.

He leaned his head against his mare's side, breathing in her soothing sweaty scent. He had always been at home with the horses. It was always comforting to groom them and to ride them, free and wild.

Just then he heard the creak of the door and the scuff of a shoe on the stone floor, barely muffled by the straw scattered around. He lifted his head and turned around to see who had invaded his equine sanctuary. The swish of a long skirt made him cringe, thinking at first that Melanie had followed him. But then he noticed that the color was different, and the stride was wrong: strong and smooth where Melanie's was quick and prissy.

He lifted his eyes and saw her face in the dim light filtering through the slats of wood.

His intake of breath caused her to halt, and a tiny gloved hand lifted to her mouth.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't know anyone was in here."

There was no hint of the southern drawl he had grown up hearing. Her vowels were short and her consonants almost clipped.

A Yankee.

"No harm done, Miss …" He let his words trail off, silently asking her name.

"Devereaux. Annabelle Devereaux."

"Miss Devereaux," he repeated, reaching up to tip his hat to her only to realize that he wasn't wearing a hat. He ran his hand through his mess of blond curls. He couldn't seem to stop staring at her, and his eyes roamed over her delicate features: the high cheekbones; small, pert nose; full, soft lips; and wide, dark eyes. In the dark of the stable, he couldn't make out the color of her eyes, but he was still struck by her quiet beauty.

"I don't believe we've met, Mr. …"

"Whitlock," he supplied. "Jasper Whitlock."

Her eyes widened, and he imagined that in the sunlight they might have twinkled. "You're Emma's brother. The Major returned from the frontier."

"Yes, ma'am." He smiled at her description of him. "And you are … ?"

"Going for a ride, Major Whitlock," she said, keeping him guessing as to her relation to their hosts. She turned to the stall across from Jasper's mare and lifted a saddle blanket over the horse's back.

Jasper stepped up behind her and said, "Allow me," as he hefted the saddle from its perch and settled it over the blanket. "And it's just Jasper," he said, cinching the buckle snugly under the horse's belly.

She eyed him appraisingly before smiling and extending her gloved hand. "Jasper," she agreed. "And I'm Belle."

He took her hand gently and lifted it, brushing his lips softly over her knuckles. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Belle," he murmured.

"Would you care to join me, Jasper?" she invited, slipping the bridle over her mount's nose and sliding the bit into place.

"It would be my pleasure, Miss Belle," he replied, smiling at her in the gloom of the stable.

He made quick work of saddling his mare as she led her gelding out of the stall. He handed her his reins and stepped forward to open the stable doors. The sunlight flooded in, and Jasper caught his breath as he turned to look at her. She was even more beautiful than he had thought, and her sweet voice sang to him as no one's ever had.

As he held her gelding's bridle to allow her to mount, he smiled to himself, almost daring to dream again.